


here's that voice in your head, giving you shit again

by arbitrarily



Series: come and get you some [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Star Wars RPF
Genre: (With Repressed Feelings), Bad Flirting, Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/pseuds/arbitrarily
Summary: Mid-flight epiphanies, and other related disasters.
Relationships: Domhnall Gleeson/Oscar Isaac
Series: come and get you some [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116887
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	here's that voice in your head, giving you shit again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).

> Title from Car Seat Headrest's "Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales."
> 
> Let's just assume this is set some time vaguely during the start of a Star Wars promo tour? This was meant to be a drabble, but completely ran away from me?

It’s in the middle of the flight out to LA that Domhnall gets it. They’re somewhere over the plains, maybe, but the sky is dark and the ground too far away to see anything of interest. Clouds, maybe. Not interesting. 

See, at this height, he’s probably a genius. And he’s probably a genius because he’s pretty sure he figured it out—this thing he and Oscar have? First of all, it’s not a thing, thank you very much, and second, as informed by the prior principle, it’s unspoken. They don’t talk about it. So long as it is never uttered out loud (and for two people who seem incapable, at best, of keeping their mouths shut, the feat of mutual silence and tacit agreement is extraordinary and is not an achievement to be diluted), it’s fine. It’s not real. No matter where whose hand is on which body party and whose tongue in whose mouth—if they don’t talk about it, it only exists on the margins of human history, somewhere lost and hidden. The Bermuda Triangle. The city of Atlantis. A blackhole on the edge of the galaxy. And that’s great.

Domhnall may not speak it out loud, but he tells himself: it’s good. it’s great. It’s probably what he wanted. 

What he realizes—en route to Oscar, above Kansas, maybe, and a scattering of uninteresting clouds, genius by way of self-sabotage—is that it’s not nearly enough.

Disheveled, his suitcase trailing behind him, he makes his way down the empty hall of a Los Angeles hotel. He raps his fist against the door, the same room number Oscar had texted him while Domhnall waited impatiently for a Lyft at LAX. “Business or pleasure?” the driver had asked, and Domhnall had said, “Jesus, does it even fucking matter?” Not his finest hour. Arguably, the last twelve have not been his finest. 

It’s two AM. Oscar opens the door, greeting him in a pair of sweats and an equally worn t-shirt. The collar gapes, ripped, threatening to flash more than a little collarbone. Domhnall thinks he might have been responsible for that. And wouldn’t that be so like Oscar, to wear the evidence of what he has done and would like to continue to do more of to him. Or maybe that’s on Domhnall, reading too much into nothing. Maybe it’s just a t-shirt. Maybe Oscar needs to go shopping. 

“Hey.” Oscar speaks first. His eyes are as bleary as Domhnall’s, which tells him precisely how Oscar has spent his night. That, and the faint smell, herbal and not entirely unappealing. 

It takes Domhnall an embarrassingly long beat to remember how his limbs work and also his mouth. 

“I hope you didn’t stay up on my account.” Domhnall pushes past him, into the room, in lieu of any other potentially intimate greeting. He can’t remember what they normally do. Maybe they really do just say, “Hey,” to each other, monosyllabic, containing Whitman multitudes. Do they hug? Shake hands, like proper businessmen? His head is still thousands of miles up in the air, still selfish and greedy and definitely hungry, that singular word _more_ thumping along with the pulse in his throat.

“Don’t come near me,” he says. He lets his suitcase fall on its side in the middle of the room. "I smell like an airplane. My head’s killing me. I travel like a dead man.” He flops down onto the bed, shaking the frame despite his meager own, and then stills on his back. It’s a nice bed, very comfortable. 

“What, in a coffin?”

“What? No. I’m not a Dracula.”

“Nah, just dead.”

“Exactly.” He closes his eyes. He can hear Oscar snickering. The sound carries both very close and very far away, and there is definitely a metaphor there his arms are too short to reach. He sighs. “I don’t know why you’re laughing. I’m cranky and I hate airplanes and I’d very much so like to enjoy a long series of naps.”

“Like, a whole night’s sleep?”

“Sure, but I am a man who will take what he can get.”

Oscar snorts. “You think that’s a detail about you that’s escaped me?” The mattress shifts and Domhnall opens his eyes. Oscar is sitting beside him now, his hand is braced against the mattress by Domhnall’s head, leaning and looming over his prone form. Domhnall supposes, in his most generous estimation of the both of them and their appearances, that they could very much so look like one of those grand paintings in the halls of the Met or the Louvre or some rich billionaire’s sex dungeon. Devastatingly Handsome No-Longer-Youthful Not-Quite Gentleman Stooped Over The Body of His Dead Paramour. Something like that. Maybe. Probably not. He closes his eyes again. 

“Oh, you’re funny tonight, aren’t you?” It comes out as one long drawl, Domhnall’s accent doing funny things to vowels and also maybe consonants. “It’s a role reversal, is that it? I’ll be surly and moody and an immoveable object against all forces space and time, and you’ll be me?”

“Yeah?” He can’t see Oscar’s face, not when he’s laid flat like this and playing dead, but he can hear the smile in his voice. It cuts through like a sharpened blade. “What’s that entail?”

“You don’t already know my finest traits? I have to catalog them for you? Why, let’s see. I’m charming and I’m witty and I am absolutely irresistible.” He drops a hand over his face, covering his eyes; he really does have a headache. “C’est moi.”

“French, I’m gonna guess, doesn’t rank too highly among these highly desirable traits?”

“Fuck off. You list them for me then.”

“Are you being you or are you being me right now?” There’s something that's leeched into Oscar’s voice now, some kind of leading edge, that makes Domhnall open his eyes. Oscar has leaned in close enough that he all but blots out the view above him—a cut of ceiling, and then all Oscar. Domhnall looks at him through the cracks between his fingers, like he’s watching a horror film or the dailies of a particularly miserable performance of his own. He moves his hand, rhythmically, fingers open and closed, open and closed, so that Oscar’s here then gone, here then gone. It’s easier to look at him like this—honest even, he supposes: here, then gone. 

“Both.” Domhnall had aimed for snotty, but landed somewhere farther afield—too soft. “Simultaneously,” and that’s better, more grit, his face still covered but his mouth. “Don’t act like you’re not equally thirsty for praise. I know you after all.”

“That you do, Oscar.” Domhnall drops his hand, unable to stop the surprised laugh that cracks his mouth open. Oscar’s own brow is quirked, more dangerous than flirtatious or silly.

“Oh, god, you’ve always wanted to fuck yourself, haven’t you, you bloody narcissist. I’ve played right into your hand.”

“I’ll play right into your hand.”

“What?” It’s too undignified to be called anything other than a yelp, unfortunately. Domhnall’s finally sat up, propped up on his bent elbows, his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“What? I’m you.”

“I do not talk like that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t.”

Oscar slaps him across the cheek, the impact too light to be anything more than a joke Domhnall’s not in on. It doesn’t hurt. He still says, “Ow,” with more offense than strictly necessary. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m teasing. I’m laughing,” Oscar says, even though he’s very much so not. 

Domhnall raises a hand to his face. He’s disappointed to find the skin where Oscar hit him is no warmer than the rest of his face. Maybe he does like evidence, after all. He smoothes his hand down to his mouth, watches as Oscar watches him intently. There was something weirdly appealing about being hit by him; it's even more appealing to think about hitting him back. Domhnall lunges up suddenly and he grabs at Oscar’s face. He kisses him, which is sort of the same thing. It’s definitely just as satisfying. 

Oscar knows Domhnall’s hip bones the same way he knows the hollow of Oscar’s throat: with near romantic reverence and obsessive bruising devotion. When you’re silent, when you don't talk about it to each other, you can be a poet. Domhnall knows this now. He’s a regular fucking Shakespeare when it comes to one Oscar Isaac and the body he inhabits. 

And there is plenty to be poetic about, or at the least cliched. There's the contrast of pale (fish belly corpse on the dock, a patient three breaths away from tuberculosis-induced doom) and tan; rugged versus wimpy (per his own self-assessment, but also Oscar’s chiding, more praise than chastisement, husky and hot against his ear as he wrestled him down that one time in New York—“you fucking wimp”); red versus dark; shorter and taller; muscle against bone. 

Domhnall pulls his mouth away to take in a much-needed deep breath. His lips have that numb, buzzing feeling to them, and he passes his tongue over his bottom lip. Oscar’s eyes immediately fixate on that. 

“I had plans, you know,” Domhnall hears himself saying, still out of breath. "I was going to take a shower, I was going to relax. I didn’t think I’d be beset by you the second I walked through the door.”

“Shut up, yes you did.” Oscar advances that much closer, which is impressive, considering how close they already are. Oscar presses too much of his weight against Domhnall’s thigh, but the ache feels good. “You thought about it the whole flight out here, didn’t you? ‘Oh, I have an idea, Oscar. I know the junkets aren’t til Monday, but I’ll fly out that Friday. We’ll make a weekend of it.’” Oscar’s nose bumps at the cut of Domhnall’s jaw, covered by his beard, and he's more than a little disappointed when Oscar doesn’t bite him. "What the fuck did you think we’d be doing?”

Domhnall doesn’t want to think about anything he thought about on the flight out here. 

“I didn’t think a thing. My mind is a blank canvas. An empty room, even. No furniture—“ Oscar’s tongue in his mouth cuts him off, which is excellent. No sense in ever discussing what he thought, up in the air, a bad rom-com playing for mid-flight entertainment on the tiny screen in front of him. Playing in his head. Oscar’s mouth drags down to his chin then along his jaw. Down to the too-thin skin of his throat. Domhnall sucks in a sharp breath. “If you must know, I thought only of the inefficiencies of modern travel. Airplanes are sky prisons, and I hate them.”

Oscar bites him this time, blunt teeth and mind-boggling suction. Domhnall’s hips try to jerk under his weight. 

“God, you’re whiny. If you’re gonna be such a baby about it, why even come?”

“I’m only here for you.” Domhnall didn’t mean to say it. He wishes, fervently, that time travel had in fact been invented, if only so he can go back and erase that from the record. “Pretend I didn’t say that,” he says quickly, his own, admittedly weak, stab at nonexistent time travel.

Oscar lifts his head. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but it’s his mouth—swollen and used already—that’s the most interesting thing about him. Currently. “Why? Is that supposed to be a secret?”

“I wish it was.” And he’s definitely earned his claim to whiny now. He needs to shut up. He needs to stop talking. But Oscar’s face is very serious now, and Domhnall doesn’t know what to do with that. His face is close enough that he can examine him piecemeal: the gray in his hair, the lines cropped in the corners of his eyes, the dark brown of his eye that disappears into darker pupil, his fucking pores even. Oscar is looking at him as if he is doing exactly the same: taking inventory. He leans into him, his nose bumping against Domhnall’s, his hand cradled at the base of his skull. Domhnall can’t decide if he should read tenderness or menace in his grip, or if perhaps the two are often very easily confused.

Oscar pulls back slightly to speak. “If you’re supposed to be me and I’m supposed to be you, then there’s nothing we don’t know about each other.” Domhnall knows even less what to do with _that_. Oscar’s mouth is too close to his, too close not to be kissing him. He’s talking the same way he does usually right before Domhnall takes his dick in his mouth or slicks a finger down the crease of his ass. Dirty talk, made worse by the knowing tilt to it now. The personal angle. It makes Domhnall feel hot all over. 

Domhnall opens his mouth and he says something that’s an embarrassing garble of _fuck you_ and _fuck me _and _fucking move_ as he tries to wrestle both of their shirts off at the same time. They’re not so much kissing now as biting at each other’s mouths, shoving bodily at each other. Oscar's mostly naked, his sweatpants shoved down below his ass, the wet head of his cock smearing against the inside of Domhnall’s forearm as he reaches for Oscar’s hip. 

Oscar’s hand presses low on Domhnall’s abdomen, right above the fly of his jeans. Domhnall shifts restlessly, self-consciousness finding him when he least wants it. He weirdly wants to laugh; he gasps instead. When Oscar lifts his head, his eyes are dark, lips spit-slick, and talk about a sight to behold. 

“Am I supposed to give you what you want, or what I want?”

Domhnall groans, needy and impatient and well past the point of shame. “I don’t fucking care, I’ve lost the fucking metaphor. Do what you want. Please. Do something.”

Oscar gets down on his knees. He drags Domhnall’s hips to the edge of the mattress. His hands slowly open his jeans and the side of his hand brushes against his hard cock through the fabric. It’s just enough stimulation to make his brain feel like it’s approaching meltdown but it's not enough, not nearly enough. “Do what I want,” Oscar says, slowly, steadily, and that’s always been the problem with Oscar like this. He is not Domhnall. He is not so instantly and entirely undone. He can still think before he speaks. His skin doesn’t go blotchy and pink, obvious, with want. He can pretend, or worse, he actually is unaffected. He can maintain distance. 

Domhnall drags his fingers through Oscar’s already mussed hair and he pulls, more than just a little. He’s surprised by the whine that he gets out of Oscar. Responsive and eager, maybe as much as he is, hollowed out by something as familiar as desperation. He pulls his hair a little harder, gets something like a whimper from Oscar. He pictures the distance between them shrinking, just like the dumb graphic on the seat-back screen on the airplane showing their progress from Heathrow to LA. Closer and closer, and Domhnall says, “Please,” again and actually means it. 

Oscar’s mouth is wet and open on him. He tongues up the underside of his dick before he takes the head into his mouth, the sensation more than enough to make Domhnall’s hips try to lift off the bed. But there’s Oscar, pushing him back down. He likes that. He likes it when he holds him down. He thinks he even likes the things he doesn’t like about Oscar. He’d let him do anything he wanted. He groans that it’s this he wanted, his mouth dragging down the length of him, taking him too deep too fast. 

He’s been primed for this since his flight landed. Before that, even. The moment Oscar’s fingers push behind his balls, he knows this is seconds away from being over. He can’t say a single sensible thing (_what else is new?_, the voice in his head: definitely Oscar’s), but he pulls harder at Oscar’s hair as he comes in his mouth. Down his throat, Oscar only gagging a little as he swallows. 

He doesn’t remove his hand from Oscar’s hair, even as he crawls back up his body. His mouth smears wetly against Domhnall’s shoulder. He likes Oscar’s weight on him—the right kind of heavy, an anchor. “You want my mouth?” Domhnall manages to say, his voice still breathless, catching and skipping between each spoken syllable.

Oscar shakes his head, his face buried along Domhnall’s neck now. His hips move in a jerky, uncoordinated rhythm against him, his hand tight against Domhnall’s hip. “I just want you.” It’s as offhand as it is stupidly profound. 

He lets Oscar rut against him, and it’s almost too much for Domhnall; each brush of Oscar’s thigh, his cock, leaking and twitching, against his own softening dick makes his whole body tremble. He’s too sensitive, it’s too much, but that’s good too. He can’t stop touching Oscar. He gets his hands on his ass, as if to guide his movement against him, idly spreading him, spurring him on. 

Domhnall can’t understand anything Oscar says when he comes, his mouth muffled against Domhnall’s throat. He can’t decide if that’s fair. 

Oscar doesn’t move off of him though, so Domhnall doesn’t move either. It’s rather gross and uncomfortable, though not unwanted. The slowing thump of Oscar’s heart feels a lot like an extension of his own. Maybe that was what Oscar was trying to tell him earlier. Maybe Domhnall needs to learn how to listen. 

Domhnall takes a deep breath. He pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead; his right arm is beginning to fall asleep. He decides to be reckless if not stupid, which is often mistaken as the same thing as brave. “I actually am very into you.” He shrugs, which hardly even jostles Oscar on top of him. “I thought you should know. I just want you, too.”

Oscar laughs, a low rumble, as kind as it is deep. Domhnall as much hears it as feels the humid heat of it, Oscar’s mouth still pressed to the length of his throat. “Was that supposed to be a secret, too?”


End file.
